


Anonymous

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anonymous Sex, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Sex in the Dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 09:09:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7795786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts like this:<br/>Dorian, 28 years old, single and lonely.<br/>And also terribly horny.<br/>So he goes to a BDSM club that his friend Mae frequents, because what's the harm in enjoying some quick, fun, anonymous sexy times?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anonymous

**Author's Note:**

> Very special thanks to my good friend [Kyan](http://Stealthbaguette.tumblr.com) for beta'ing my fic!!! I couldn't have done this without you <3
> 
> This was originally written for the Adoribull Minibang, but then I didn't feel confident enough to post it and scrapped it temporarily. Now I finally decided to post it as a sort of an early bday gift to myself! (my bday's on the 18th)
> 
> Anyway I hope u enjoy!!! :D

It starts like this:

Dorian, 28 years old, single and lonely.

And also terribly horny.

A friend of his - Mae, of all people, and boy does he wishes he could erase the mental image that first gave him - suggests he try anonymous sex. Quick, dirty, secret, and best of all, no strings attached. The bar she and her husband frequent weekly in Orlais is also a safe BDSM meetup, and she and Thorold are, apparently, gold card members since before they met each other.

So after a couple of weeks trying to convince himself that yes, it can’t hurt - _or can it_ , he hears in Mae’s voice, making him roll his eyes at himself - he finally gets himself together. Puts on nice underwear and a plain v-neck shirt, and tells himself he’s not nervous at all.

Nope.

Not one bit.

Felix shakes his head and tells him to have fun with a suggestive waggle of his brows, making Dorian flush and splutter as he locks the door behind him.

Thorold meets him at the entrance of the club, introduces Dorian to the security guard like they're old friends, and brings him in. The building itself is plain and looks more like an old house than a bar; Dorian finds it very charming.

Once inside, spotting Mae isn’t hard. She sits at the bar, sipping a fruity drink and laughing at whatever the bartender said. At the sight of Thorold, she lifts both her hands, face lighting up.

“Darlin’! You brought him!”

“Yup, safe and sound!” Thorold replies, laughing as she giggles and climbing up the stool next to her to peck her on the lips. Something inside Dorian twists painfully for a fraction of a second, at seeing them like this. Happily married for five years now, and with no signs of ever being apart.

Dorian wishes - just for a second - he could also have that. But no sense wishing for the impossible.

“Was it hard finding the place, dear?” Mae asks, pecking Dorian on the cheek, and Dorian shakes his head.

“Not at all, your instructions were crystal clear as usual.”

“Of course they were. Now, what do you want to start the evening?”

“Just a plain martini, please.”

“Ohhh, a fancy pants like Mae-mae, aren’t you?” The bartender, a blonde elf with a choppy haircut, croons at him mockingly. “A boring martini coming right up!”

“Don’t mind Sera, she’s just... _enthusiastic_ ,” Mae tells him when she sees his wide eyes and shocked expression. “Also, the best drinks mixer in all of Orlais.”

“And one hell of an ass kicker, too!” She snickers, sliding Dorian’s martini atop the counter as he settles next to Mae. “If you need someone to get the wedgie of their fuckin’ lives, you scream for me and I’ll be there!”

“That’s... very kind of you to offer,” Dorian mutters, and the elf girl cackles loudly.

“Not _kind_ , no. I _charge_ for it, prissy pants. It’s a real skill, you know.”

“A master at drinks mixing _and_ a professional underwear wedger? My, what a delightfully talented young woman you are.”

At that, the girl cackles loudly, making Dorian grin. “I like you, prissy pants. You’re okay.” She says, then turns away and walks to the other end of the bar.

Dorian sips at his martini, taking the olive swaying in the clear liquid and promptly chewing on it as he evaluates his surroundings. The ground floor, where he’s at right now, looks like a regular bar: a few tables, a decent sized dance floor, not too loud pop music playing, and a few waiters wandering around, serving finger food and drinks to the patrons. At the opposite end of the room, he sees steps that lead upstairs.

“I must admit, Mae, this is far from what I imagined this place would be,” he says, and Mae nods, placing her hand gently on his arm.

“This used to be a residential home, and later the owners turned it into a business. The party is upstairs; down here is where you go to wind down or if you don’t just want to or don’t feel ready to join the fun.”

“Ah,” he says, taking another sip from his martini. “Sounds reasonable.”

Mae chuckles, and shows him her wrist, a golden wristband on it. “You need one of these to go upstairs. Sera here can give you one, I already paid your fee and told everyone you’re plenty trustworthy.”

“Yeah, and if you’re not, I’m ready to kick your flimsy fancy ass!” Sera exclaims from the other side of the bar, smiling wickedly. Dorian figures she’d been eavesdropping, and can’t bring himself to be too upset over it. She comes over with a wristband, waving it around, and Dorian offers his hand to her.

“Well, if one proves themselves to be untrustworthy even after they’ve been vouched for, I say they wholly deserve your brand of ass whooping. Even if they’re as handsome as I am.” Sera laughs loudly, throwing her head back, and slaps his wrist once the paper is in place.

“You got that right, prissy pants! I’d whoop your butt like your butt’s never been whooped before!” She exclaims, smiling at him. Her smile turns into a frown when she sees Dorian watching her with a raised brow. “ _Eugh_ , not like _that_ , though. You’re not exactly my type, if you know what I mean.” Dorian keeps staring, both brows now up, and Sera rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. “You know! I play for the girls team! The _biiiiig_ girls team, preferably. The bigger and stronger, the fuckin’ better. _Woof_.”

“Ah, I see.” Dorian chuckles. “Well, I wish you luck in your endeavours. May you find the biggest and strongest ladies to perfect your evening.”

“Same to you, Vint. Although you probably don’t need much to get some, do you? I bet people jizzle in their pants when they see you, innit?”

“That’s the plan, my dear lady.” Dorian winks, downing the rest of his drink much to Sera’s delight. He touches Mae and Thorold’s shoulder, tells them he’s going to the first floor to check out the party, and makes his way to the stairs like he owns the place. Flashes the security guard his bracelet, then climbs up.

It is like this now:

Dorian, 28 years old, still single and still lonely.

And currently a lot more nervous than he cares to admit to anyone, including himself.

He opens the door at the top of the stairs to face a well lit and wide room that smells faintly of sex. A table in the far left corner provides the party goers with an array of condoms and lube packets. On the far right there is a makeshift stage with a girl spinning around on a stripper pole, showing off her moves to the people around, who cheer her on and clap as they see fit. A total of four rooms seem to be in this floor, and only one has the door closed; the other three are left ajar. Dorian can faintly hear people moaning and a whip cracking from somewhere.

All in all, everyone is dressed quite modestly; Dorian sees no one wearing extravagant buckles or flashy outfits. When they went over all of the rules and regulations of the party, Mae had told him only the people participating in the action are the ones undressed, and honestly, it all sounded a lot... _safer_ than any sort of sexual activity he’d ever engaged in himself. Dorian told this to Mae, which only resulted in her giving him _that_ look, the one that told him she thought he deserved better than one night stands with random strangers that didn’t give two shits about him or his feelings.

And if he’s being honest with himself, Dorian is tired of it too. He’s far too old to be looking for quickies in shady bars that use him and leave him feeling like shit afterwards, or worse, that leave without a trace the next morning and makes Dorian wish he’d at least asked for their names.

 _No_ , Dorian thinks. No more of those. Even if he has zero intentions of starting a serious and committed relationship any time soon, damn it all if he isn’t going to allow himself to have good, unworried fun in the meantime.

He goes to the table at the corner, fetches a few condoms and lube packages, stuffing them in the pockets of his jeans, and knocks at the door of the closed room. An older qunari woman opens it, then gestures for him to come in.

“In for the dark room, newbie?” She asks, and when Dorian nods, she grins softly. “You’re Mae’s friend, I assume. I heard a lot about you.”

“Nothing bad, I hope,” he says, and the woman chuckles, baring her teeth in a sweet smile.

“Nothing bad at all. Room two is empty. You just wait in there, and I’ll fetch a friend of mine to join you in a few minutes.”

“A friend? And who is he, if I might ask?” Dorian blurts out before he can help himself, and the woman’s smile becomes impish, like she’s planning something. Dorian gulps.

“Now, now. If I told you that would ruin the anonymous fun, wouldn't it? Three minutes. I’ll be back.” She informs him, then opens the door and sashays away into the main floor, leaving Dorian alone to wait.

The ‘hallway’ he’s in is odd; it is very obvious to Dorian the three rooms facing him and the ‘hallway’ he’s standing in used to be one connected space. Each room has a numbered door. He goes to the one with the number two on top, then pulls the lever to open the door. He’s delighted to see it is sealed and most likely soundproofed, but despite that, a cool and fresh breeze flows inside.

And everything is absolutely pitch black.

For a second, the sight makes Dorian uneasy, so he unlocks his phone and closes the door behind him with a thud, watching the room with the dim light of his phone’s main screen. Before him is a curtain, black and thick, and when he pushes it to the side, he sees himself inside a small, confined room with plush walls and floors. Small, but big enough that he could probably kneel on the floor and have someone behind him without having his head stick out of the curtain - and isn’t that a highly indecent thought. The far wall has a bump on the floor, a makeshift step that can probably be used to climb or to sit down on, and Dorian does just that, taking the condoms off his pockets and placing them beside him, then turning his phone off and putting it back on the front pocket of his jeans. Darkness engulfs him completely without any lights on, and even when he places his hand right before his own nose he can't see anything.

So he waits.

Time seems to drag itself, he notices, when there’s nothing to measure it besides his own breath. Faintly he can hear doors being closed around the building, and the low hum of the fan somewhere above that gives the room its slight chill, but the loudest noise in the room are the sound of his own breathing and the thumping of his own heartbeat. He waits, and waits, and just as he’s about to get up to see if he hasn’t been abandoned the door opens, a slimmer of light coming from below the curtain.

His heart races.

“Have fun, you two,” he hears a voice saying - the qunari lady, he realises - and then the door closes, engulfing everything in absolute darkness again. Whoever’s behind the curtain chuckles -a deep, masculine rumble that sends shivers down Dorian’s spine -, and steps forward, pushing the curtain away and entering.

“You in here, stranger?”

“Yes,” Dorian says, and the man huffs out.

“Good. You’re sitting down, aren’t you?”

“Precisely. I take it this is not your first time doing this.”

“Nope,” he says, and Dorian hears the rustling of fabric, hears him stepping forward, shuffling his feet until the tip of his shoes touches Dorian’s. “Already did this a few good times. It’s fun. You a first timer?”

“Afraid so,” Dorian breathes out, and the man laughs again. Dorian never knew that laughing could sound so... _erotic_.

“Nothin’ to be afraid of. First time’s usually a bit more awkward while you're trying to figure out the logistics, but it’s the best time too. Besides, I’m here to help you out. No need to worry about a thing.”

“Glad to hear it,” Dorian says, dropping his voice a few octaves lower, and the man above him hums loudly, like a rumbling deep inside his chest. It makes Dorian’s pants unbearably tight.

“Has anyone ever told you what a damn sexy voice you have? Can’t wait to hear you sing,” the man says, and Dorian jumps as he hears what’s probably both of his hands slapping on the wall above Dorian’s head. His breathing picks up along with his heartbeat, and he pulls his shirt up a little to let the cool air hit his flushed skin, opens the fly of his jeans, bold with the knowledge that the man looming above him cannot see him.

“I... some people have, yes. Although I’m not much of a singer myself.”

“Oh, won’t you indulge me?” he asks, his voice now much _closer_ and lower than Dorian expected it to be, hot, moist breath tickling the shell of his ear. Dorian moans out, and the man chuckles, low and throaty. “There we go. Just like that, sweetheart.”

“Aren’t you cocky. Don’t you think for a second that I cannot make you sing, too.” Dorian whispers, trying to sound confident despite his nervousness, and leans to the side to speak over the man’s cheek. Given the feel of stubble scratching over his lips and the minor tremble he feels, Dorian reckons he’s still got it.

“I’m counting on it, big guy,” the man replies, sounding amused. Breathless, even. “Ground rules first. Feel free to touch me, but I’d rather you avoid my eyes. Anywhere else is free game, and I’ll go as far as you want me to. How’s that sound?”

“Hmm, but that sounds _marvelous_ ,” Dorian whispers, biting his bottom lip. He wonders about the eyes, but doesn’t give it much thought. There’s probably a story there, and he doesn’t have to know it. Not now, anyway, and probably not ever. “Anything else I should know?”

“Nah. You have the green card to ravish me however you prefer. You?”

Dorian stops, hums, thinks. While he does so, he lifts his hands from the makeshift bench and tentatively brings them forward, until the tip of his fingers find the fabric of the man’s shirt. He presses his palms forward, curls his fingers, grabs on to him, dragging his nails through the fabric. Makes him groan. Pulls him closer and drags his lips over the man’s cheek, finds his ear and latches onto it, breathing hotly inside. The man shivers, and Dorian grins.

“Don’t boss me around or call me filthy or degrading names. You _may_ tell me to do things, and I shall take your _kind_ _suggestions_ into consideration. Don’t grab, pull or mess my hair, don’t ruin my clothes, and don’t pinch me anywhere but my nipples, although grabbing is much appreciated. You may also touch me anywhere you wish, and if I find anything unpleasant I shall let you know right away. Do we have a deal?”

“Hell yeah,” the man breathes out, sounding a lot less composed than when he first came in, and in a heartbeat the hands on the wall slide down and cradle Dorian’s face, and _oh_ , Dorian figured they’d be bigger, but he couldn’t imagine _how much_ bigger they actually are, fingers curling on his nape and palms gently touching his cheeks, enveloping almost the entire span of his head.

Dorian turns his face, kisses the palm on his right, moves to the pinkie finger and licks it, catches it with his lips. He notices the man weakly attempting to retract his hand, torn between offering it and pulling it back, and just as Dorian wonders why he notices the tip of the finger has an odd texture, most likely from deep scarring, the nail and probably one or two knuckles missing. “Ah, shit, you don’t have to--” he starts, but instead of retracting, Dorian just sucks the whole finger into his mouth, tongue lavishing the digit greedily as he drags his hands over the expanse of the men’s chest, cupping the pecs under both his palms and squeezing. “ _Fuck_ ,” the man moans, and Dorian moans back with his mouth full, wondering how many people neglected him because of his scars and how he’d make them pay for it.

When Dorian pulls back they’re both panting, and the man’s body is relatively closer to his own, merely inches from his face. Although he cannot see a thing, he can smell just fine, and the scent this guy gives off makes him dizzy with want, makes him rut into the air in search of friction. His legs are bracketed by equally huge thighs, the man’s hands wandering downwards, bypassing Dorian’s shoulders and sliding down his back, then slowly pulling the hem of his shirt up. Dorian hums, then leans forward, squeezes the pecs in his hands again then nuzzles them with his nose.

“Maker, you’re _huge_ ,” Dorian sighs out, teeth scraping over the cotton and catching on a nipple, and above him the man moans loudly, nails scratching his back and making Dorian arch into the touch.

“Damn, _ah_ , yeah, is that. That bad for you?” He asks, stuttering, the words choppy and unsure, and _oh_ , Dorian wants to _worship_ this man. He bites onto the nipple as he squeezes again, kneading onto the man’s flesh like a greedy kitten, before finally letting up and sliding both his hands down, feeling the curve of his belly against his hand, grabbing onto the love handles under the shirt he’s wearing.

“It’s new, I have to say,” Dorian whispers, rubbing and scratching the soft skin under the man’s shirt, pulling it up on the way back to his chest. He sees that the man’s movements on his back have stopped, so he leans forward, bites his hip lovingly, pinches the nipples under his fingers and twists. The man howls, bending forward towards Dorian, his hands now holding on to dear life on his shoulders. Dorian doesn’t usually go for the bigger or smaller guys, usually choosing men around his own height and body type. He’s seen and lusted after the bigger ones, surely - dwarves, qunari, even humans, either taller or wider than him, but he’d never been bold enough to pursue them.

Now, though...

Now he squeezes and pulls and bites with a boldness he rarely ever feels, and above him he feels the man positively coming apart.

“I’m afraid you’ve probably ruined me for other men, my friend,” he sighs against the man’s hip, nips at the waistband of his boxers, which he feels with his lips, peeking out from under his jeans.

“Is that so?” He asks, laughing, but it’s considerably weaker than earlier, shier. Dorian rises from his spot, hands never letting go of the man’s chest, and presses their bodies together, indicating what exactly he means by rubbing his erection against the man’s hip.

“Yes. It most likely is so,” Dorian whispers against his chin; how much he means what he’s saying and how much of it is just blatant flirting is something he’ll have to evaluate later. Now, though - now the man groans, growls almost, then catches Dorian’s face roughly, pulling him up for a kiss.

They miss each other’s mouth the first try, but on the second they latch on and Dorian wraps his arms around the man, grabbing onto his shoulders. It’s all mostly teeth and tongue, desperate and almost disgusting, but in the empty room, the sound of their bodies so close together rubbing against each other, their spittle mingling and making such slick sounds... it all just makes him more desperate and horny than he’d been mere seconds before. They kiss like they haven't kissed in years, like they crave each other more than life itself, and it all makes Dorian’s heart race faster, a warmth run through him like he’s about to burst. Like he could stay like this, attached to this man for the rest of his life and he wouldn’t bring himself to mind.

Another dangerous, treacherous thought, one that has no place in a room where Dorian is about to have wonderful, hot, no strings attached sex. Dorian hums, moans louder against the man’s mouth, and dismisses the thought; files it away for later.

Later.

Later, later, later, if there is ever going to be a later, a thing and a place and a time away from this, from the warmth against this man; the sweat slicked skin that makes his fingers slip and catches under his nails; the rough stubble that scratches against his lips and makes it sting, raw and painful and oh so glorious; the hands that grabs both his asscheeks and hauls him up, shoves him against the soft wall of the dark room.

And so, it goes like this:

Dorian, 28 years old, _still_ single, still a bit lonely.

Currently engaging in sexy fun times with a complete stranger.

Oh, what a titillating thought that is.

He detaches himself temporarily from the man before him, muttering something about clothes to no one in particular as he pulls his shirt above his head. The anonymous man, nearly double his own size, holds Dorian against the wall with just his hips, the erection straining against his jeans pressing up against Dorian, and he wraps his legs tighter around him, moans as he tosses his shirt somewhere far. The man fumbles with his clothes, and as Dorian reaches forward he realizes he’s wearing a button down shirt. For a second he fists the fabric beneath his hands, gets the urge to just-- rip it off, send the buttons flying, the cotton ripping, fuck all consequences. But then he remembers both of them will have to do the walk of shame once out of this room, and refrains himself. He wouldn’t appreciate someone ruining his own clothes.

Thinks, it's a pity, and also, I’ll have to do that some other day, and stops. Breathes deeply, concentrates on the man’s grunts, steady and in time with Dorian’s rhythmic sway of his hips against his clothed monster cock. Wills the thought away.

There will never be a next time. There is barely a time right now. They haven’t even done anything, even though it feels to Dorian that they’ve done more than plenty. If this was over now, he’d be left wanting more, yes, but it would’ve been a complete experience. He would ultimately be happy for what he got.

But it is not over.

Far from it.

The man shakes his shoulders, making Dorian let go so he can throw his shirt somewhere on the floor, and then they’re kissing again, slower this time, less desperate. First, just a press of lips, then just a press of tongues, less of a battle of dominance and more a slow dance, getting to know each other. Dorian throws his arms around the man’s thick neck, runs his hands up the shaved scalp, traces up and up and- stops.

 _Horns_.

“You’re a qunari,” Dorian says; moans, more like. _Blessed be Andraste and all her disciples_ , he thinks, and now it all makes sense. How big he is, how bulky. How warm and oddly smooth, hairless. He feels the man pulling back again, hesitant, but Dorian will have none of that. He chases his mouth, kisses him again. “Dear Maker, I’ve never... Can I-- can I touch them?” He asks, breathless in between kisses. The man moans, ruts roughly against Dorian, bites his bottom lip and _pulls_.

“Fuck _yeah_ ,” he says, and immediately Dorian wraps his hands on the base of his horns, runs his finger along their length to try and see them with his mind’s eye. Curling outwards and up. Rough texture, slightly cooler than the rest of him. Dorian thinks of handles, and pulls the man’s head back, keeping his hold light, giving him the chance to fight back. He doesn’t. “Ah, _fuck_. You sure this your first time?”

“Yes,” Dorian replies, smiling, and wraps his hands tighter. The man groans, and Dorian kisses his chin. “Grew up in Tevinter, moved not too long ago to Orlais, so I’ve never--” Presses his fingernails to the base, scratches all the way to the curve. The man groans louder, breathes out heavily. “Oh, can you _feel_ that?”

“Yes, fuck, they’re-- a lot more sensitive during sex, you have, _ah_ , shit yeah, keep doing that, you beautiful--”

“Maker, quickly, put me down.” Dorian says all of the sudden. “If I don’t take my pants off _right this instant_ I might burst the seams of my jeans.”

The man laughs, but immediately helps Dorian set both feet to the floor, and by the way he hears the sound of buckles he knows he’s doing the same, ridding himself of his jeans, the very last article of clothing left. Dorian toes his sneakers and socks, pulls his jeans off, throws them to the general area of his shirt, kicks his shoes away. Yet another worry for a later time. Reaches forward to touch the man again, craving the contact, traces the curve of his naked hips, the grooves where the band of his underwear marked his skin.

Wishes, so badly, he could see him.

Instead, Dorian does the next best thing. He kneels to the floor, hands still in contact with the man’s skin, sliding down big, powerful thighs, down to the sensitive skin behind his knees, down further until his ankles, then all the way back up, nails biting into the skin, pressing on his buttocks. The man moans, his legs trembling, and Dorian feels the smell of his arousal, most likely inches from his face. His mouth waters, and he leans forward, resting his cheek against his thigh and nuzzling, inching closer and closer to his pubes, then breathing deeply as his hands squeeze tighter.

“You sure like manhandling me, don’t you?” The man asks, the tease marred by how breathless he sounds, and Dorian chuckles, inching closer to his erection and mouthing at the base. The man gasps.

“Guilty as charged,” he says, then rises to his feet, sliding his hands up his back until he’s hooked them at his shoulders, then steps forward until they’re skin to skin, until the man’s erection is pressing against Dorian’s stomach and Dorian’s is pressing against his leg. The size difference makes things harder, but not any less exciting. The man wraps his arms around Dorian’s waist, presses him closer, hugs him tighter as he rubs his dick against him, smearing precum on his belly, making Dorian feel minuscule. Making him feel _bolder_.

“Kiss me again, will you?” He asks, voice saccharine sweet, and with a grumble the man bends down, noses Dorian’s face until he finds his lips, then kisses him again.

Finally, like this:

Dorian, _still_ 28 years old, _still_ single.

But wrapped up in another man’s arms, breathing, panting, just letting himself go, and suddenly he realizes he’s not feeling nearly as lonely as he did.

On the tip of his toes, the head of his cock nestled under the taller man’s testicles, he stretches himself as far as he can, touches as much as possible, arches his spine and leans into the heat of his partner’s body and loses himself in the sensations. Moans, loudly and unashamedly, scratches the man’s back some more to encourage him to do the same, which he does with gusto. The room is filled with their voices, a sound almost deafening, and Dorian reaches down, nestles his hand between their bodies, grabs on tightly to the man’s cock and pumps, gently, testing the waters. Gets him to break the kiss to moan, such a gorgeous noise, Dorian _aches_ to see his face.

But this is not the game they’re playing. Seeing is irrelevant, so all he does is _feel_.

The ridges on the underside, so subtle, yet very much there, the girth of it, making impossible for Doran to wrap his fingers all the way around. He thumbs the slit, twists his fist and drags it up, covering the head with the foreskin, then gently pulls it back down, reveling not only in the sensations, in the slick sounds his movements create, but also in the glorious noises the man makes against his lips.

One of the hands on Dorian’s hip trails down, over the swell of his ass, squeezing, making him jolt, then cups his thigh, his balls, the underside of his erection, so gently, so delicately. The complete opposite of what Dorian expected from a man as big and intimidating as him.

Not at all a bad thing though, he decides, arching into the hand touching him, hiding his face on the crook of his neck, biting down in between moans. He tightens his hand and doubles his own efforts, and the man grunts, shakes under his touch, follows Dorian’s rhythm.

He won’t last for much longer.

“Don’t be shy, let me hear you, come on,” he croons, voice rough and low against his ear, making him shiver, tiny electric jolts running down his side, and Dorian _screams_ against his shoulder, clings onto this man, melts under his touch as he suddenly comes over his hand, coats his fingers and his belly. Finds he doesn’t care, redoubles his efforts once he realizes his own hand has temporarily stopped, and the man grunts, squirms. Dorian feels like a man on a mission, and keeps going. “Fuck, yeah, that’s it, just like- _oh, shit_ \--”

And quickly he’s coming too, the unfamiliar ridges under Dorian’s hand swelling, and Dorian just tightens his hand further, pumps faster, makes him scream again as thick, warm come covers Dorian’s palm and fingers and wrist, allows it to ease the slide, decrease the friction.

And just like that, all that’s left is pure bliss.

Dorian feels heavy, but sated.

The first thing he realizes is that he’s never felt so amazingly fucked by anyone in his life when technically no fucking even happened.

The second thing is that he feels like he’s in no rush to leave, even though that’s usually the first thing in his mind right after he’s finished.

The third thing is, he doesn’t want this to _end_.

The man above him is the first to break the silence after long minutes of heavy breathing, both men still clinging to one another like a lifeline.

“D’you wanna sit down?” He asks, and Dorian sighs in relief.

“ _Please_ ,” he whines, chuckling a bit with embarrassment, and the two of them carefully untangle themselves from each other, albeit they still touch with their clean hands, like an anchor, a support. They slowly lower themselves to the floor, backs to the makeshift bench, sitting next to each other but not touching anymore. Just the slightest brush of fingers.

Dorian flops his head back, eyes open but unseeing, and leaves his dirty hand next to him, uncaring about his messy state for the moment.

 _Now what?_ , he thinks, and sighs, tired deep within his core all of the sudden.

 _Later_ has come, and he wishes it hadn’t.

 _I think I might adore this man_ , he admits to himself, and his heart races again for all the wrong reasons.

_...Now what do I do?_

“Hey, uh... hey. So how are you.” The man next to him asks, hesitant, low. Dorian lifts his head, turns towards the general area of the voice.

 _Hopes_ , although he doesn’t know it yet.

“I’m... good. Better than good. You... you’re amazing,” he breathes out, voice dripping with reverence, with quiet amazement. He hopes he manages to properly convey how much he means all of it. “And you?”

“Me? Oh, I’m good. Freaking amazing. _You’re_ amazing.” Dorian chuckles at that, cheeks heating up shyly, and the man laughs along, low and gentle. Brushes the tip of their fingers together, then stills them. Lets the silence take them over again, and it’s both awkward and comfortable at once. Dorian doesn’t know what comes next, and deep down, it terrifies him, the thought that he might, after this, never see this man again.

When he steels himself to get up and start redressing himself, though, the man speaks up once more.

“Listen, I... this isn’t how this is usually done, and. And I fully understand if you say no. But I... wanted to introduce myself to you. If that’s alright with you.”

Dorian is stunned. He stares in the general area next to him, where the man must be, and tries to make sense of what this means. “But... why?” he asks, mouth agape, and there’s a pause, some shuffling. He hears fabric rustling around the floor, hears the man stretching a leg on the floor.

“I’m not sure, honestly. But you... _damn_ , big guy. You stand out, even in the dark, even when I can’t see you. I’ve never... You’re _amazing_ , and I can’t stop wondering if... if you maybe wanted to do this again sometime? Ah, I’m a mess.” A deep sigh, more fabric rustling. “Never mind, this isn’t what you signed up for, and I shouldn’t just throw this bomb in your lap. Just... forget I said anything. I’m so sorry.”

“No, I--” Dorian starts, placing his hand over the man’s arm. He feels the muscle tense, as if waiting. Doran breathes deeply. Tightens his hold. “I’m... Dorian. It’s rather nice to meet you, if I may say so myself.”

“Oh,” the man breathes, relaxes minutely. “ _Oh_ , I’m. Ashkaari. But my friends call me The Iron Bull.”

“The Iron Bull,” Dorian repeats out loud, testing the name on his tongue. “Quite a strong name for such a strong man.”

Bull laughs, fumbles around some more. “D’you mind if I turn on some lights? Gotta clean my hand. It’s getting really sticky.”

“Oh, please, go ahead. I mean, we already sort of ruined the whole experience, I suppose, what’s one more thing, right?” Dorian says, keeping his voice light, laughs to show it’s not true. Not true at all, and he wants Bull to know it’s all in good fun. Bull laughs with him and sighs.

“Alright, alright, I found my phone. Close your eyes, don’t want you hurting them.”

Dorian does, and immediately behind his lids he sees a white light, almost blinding him after such a long period of time in absolute darkness. More shuffling, more moving around, and suddenly he jumps, feeling something touch his hand.

“Peace, Dorian. I have some tissues with me, let me clean you, too.”

Tentatively, Dorian slowly opens his lids, a slither at a time. The light does hurt his eyes at first, but he quickly gets used to it, and assesses the room.

He sees sneakers thrown around, socks, a heap of jeans that is likely Bull’s, and right before him, a wide expansion of grey skin, scarred and marred, littered with reddish scratch marks that Dorian reckons he put there himself. He looks down, sees a much larger hand, larger now that he can see it than when he only imagined it, gently wiping his hand with a soft white tissue, cradling it, as if it was a delicate thing, worthy of reverence.

Dorian almost feels like he cannot look up, nervous as he is.

But he does, eventually, holding his breath in the process.

The man that stares at him only has one eye - makes sense, now that the thinks about his earlier request - and it almost seems to twinkle. It looks amused, but fond, and something behind Dorian’s chest throbs. He has a flat nose, a gorgeous grin, and his lips are as swollen as he figures his own must be.

“Nice mustache,” Bull says, sitting back at Dorian’s side, and Dorian laughs, self-consciously reaching up to fix it as best as he can. “No, no, leave it, you can really rock the mussed up look. I bet you can really rock anything, actually. _Damn_. You’re even more gorgeous than I figured you were.”

“Well, you’re too kind,” Dorian says, still smiling, and drops his hand down. “You’re rather handsome yourself, if I may say so.”

Bull smiles, scratches the back of his neck. Accepts the compliment wordlessly, probably not used to it - Dorian has an urge to change that, as soon as possible. He’s handed another tissue, and Dorian takes it with a small thanks, cleaning his chest and flaccid cock of the remaining come. “We should probably leave sooner rather than later, shouldn’t we?” He asks finally, and Bull nods, catching the leg of his jeans and pulling them on.

“I guess there’s no other way, is there?” Bull asks, and Dorian shakes his head, collecting his clothes as well.

They do make a shortcut to the bathroom to wash their hands properly, exchanging mobile phones to record their own numbers, settling on a day and place to meet again. Dorian is, admittedly, giddy, and mentally he’s already deciding what he’ll wear, how he’ll prepare. Smiles like a child at Christmas morning.

And if they spend a good five minutes pressed against the wall, heavily making out until they’re both breathless, before each going their own way for the evening,...

Well. Such is life.

 

“Dorian! Oh, Dorian, how’d it go?” Mae waves for him from the bar once he’s close enough. Sera, the bartender, whistles, and Thorold chuckles as Dorian runs his fingers through his hair to try and get it back in shape - to no avail, of course.

“Pretty damn good, right?” She asks, and Dorian blushes, taking a seat in silence. She slides him a glass of whiskey on the rocks and winks. “On the house! Congratulations on getting booty-called, handsome!”

“Why, thank you Sera, I--” Dorian starts,  stopping when he catches sight of grey skin and wide horns at the corner of his eyes. Bull walks down the stairs, talking to a young boy, and for a second their eyes meet. He sends a shy wave his way, receives a one-eyed wink right back, and in a few quick strides they’re both out the door. Dorian coughs and turns his attention back to his drink, attempting to hide the smile trying to fight its way to his lips. “Yes. So as I was saying, I _did_ have fun. It was... an experience, that’s for sure.”

He takes the glass, sips a little. The warmth of the strong drink grounds him, makes him smile as he remembers a different kind of warmth. And when he looks back up, Sera’s gaping, completely in shock. Mae is too, and Thorold laughs as he catches sight of Dorian's confused expression.

“You _didn’t!_ ” Sera shrieks, batting at his arm with the damp rag she’s clutching, but when Dorian opens his mouth he splutters instead of arguing, and her smile becomes even wider. “You _did!_ You _banged the Bull!_ You dirty cheater, I can’t believe you saw your mysterious anonymous person, and then, wot? Got his number? Frick, _please_ tell me you _at least_ got his number!”

“I...” Dorian starts, looking at Mae for help, but she just smiles and beams at him. Dorian sighs, knowing defeat when he sees it. Drinks again, sets the glass down. Grins a little, letting a warmth that has nothing to do with the alcohol spread through him. “I did, in fact. Got his number, I mean. _And_ a date.”

“A _date!_ ” Mae shouts, bouncing on her seat and hugging Dorian tightly, gasping against his neck. “Oh, and with The Iron Bull, of all people! Dorian, I cannot believe you, you charmer!”

“In his defense, he was also very charming, and how in the Maker’s name do you all know him?”

“He’s an old friend of the owner. Comes around almost every party night.” Thorold supplies, and Mae giggles, sipping on her new, fruity drink.

“Bull is an absolute sweetheart, Dorian,” she croons again, sighing like she’s an overly proud mother. “ _And_ he’s not the type of guy to do dating! You _really_ must’ve impressed him!” She giggles, pushes his shoulder lightly, and Doran presses his lips together, a grin barely contained. Feels slightly proud of himself, even. “Oh you’ll love the Bull, Dorian. Dare I say, you two would make a good couple, don’t you think, sweetie?”

“I agree,” Thorold pipes in, grinning and raising his glass to Dorian. Dorian, in return, blushes, and still fails to know how to reply to any of them. His stomach, however, does make a few flips, which aren’t all uncomfortable or unpleasant. “Good luck to you, Dorian. Bull’s a real keeper.”

“Is it too early to tell prissy pants here his dirties?” Sera asks, leaning over the counter, and Dorian widens his eyes, looking at them both, mildly shocked. He wants to protest-- should, even!

And _yet_.

“Oh, Sera darling,” Mae croons, smiling impishly. “Is it ever?”

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a few very important notes that Kyan added to my fic, one for each time the word "erection", "dick" or "cock" was written:
> 
> qunari-sausage 8D!
> 
> baloney-stick 83!
> 
> meat rifle ¦3!
> 
> joystick X3333!
> 
> pleasure balls XDDDD
> 
> one-eyed snake ;DDDDDD!
> 
> ooh la la! that is a bigga stiff noodle!
> 
> (youre welcome)


End file.
